1
GABRIELLA
Ireally should’ve taken the tinsel out of my hair.
That was my very first thought as I stepped out of the elevator at Festive Media Studios, glitter shedding off my Christmas sweater like I was a deranged holiday fairy.
In my defense, I hadn’t planned on being seen by humans today. Yesterday afternoon, when the company-wide email dropped announcing that we were all expected in the office this morning, I’d had exactly two words for my boss’s boss’s boss.
Fuck. Him.
Fuck Eli Shepard and his last-minute “back to the office for team bonding” mandate. Fuck the company that had wooed me during the interview with big talk about being a distributed workforce and respecting work-life balance.
Fuck the idea of professionalism when I’d planned to wear sweatpants, drink leftover cocoa straight from the mug, and mournfully vacuum pine needles off my floor during my work breaks. Instead, I was here—festive hair, under-eye circles, and a tumbler full of coffee I didn’t have time to drink sloshing in my hand like a liability.
So yes. Tinsel hair. Big energy. Zero regrets.
The office buzzed with activity—keyboards clacking, voices overlapping in a cacophony that made my chest tighten. Someone laughed too loud near the break room. A phone rang somewhere, shrill and insistent. The scent of competing perfumes mixed with coffee and something vaguely industrial that made my nose wrinkle.
This was going to be a disaster.
I clutched my laptop bag tighter and tried to look like I belonged here. Like I hadn’t spent the last six months working from my bed in pajama pants with cable romcoms playing in the background for company.
The open floor plan stretched out before me like a minefield—sleek white desks, industrial lighting, and exposed brick that probably cost a fortune. Apparently, this was a hot-desking situation. The email hadn’t exactly come with a seating chart. But one scan of the space made it clear that most people were just…claiming spots. Laptops open, bags slung over chairs, coffee cups marking their domain.
“Excuse me,” I said to a guy speed-walking past me with a tablet. “Do you know where?—”
He didn’t even slow down. “Meeting in five. Can’t talk.”
Cool. Great. Love the energy here.
I spotted a hallway branching off to the left and made an executive decision. If I couldn’t find my actual boss—Shelby, the marketing director who’d hired me and had been my only point of contact for six months—maybe I could find someone in management who could point me in the right direction.
The hallway was quieter, thank god. My heels clicked against the polished concrete as I passed glass-walled conference rooms and what looked like a content studio. Through one window, I caught a glimpse of ring lights and a backdrop that readJoy to the Scrollin looping script.
At the end of the hall, a door stood slightly ajar. No nameplate, but through the gap, I could see a massive desk, floor-to-ceiling windows, and the kind of view that screamed “corner office.”
Perfect. Someone important would be in there.
I knocked twice, pushing the door open before waiting for an answer because apparently, I’d left all my social skills at home with my common sense. “Hi, sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for?—”
My overstuffed bag—because I’d panic-packed like I was prepping for the apocalypse—caught on the door handle. I felt the tug, tried to compensate, and instead swung too wide into the office. My bag collided with something on a credenza just inside the door.
Time slowed down in that horrible way it does when you know you’ve messed up but can’t stop the momentum. I watched in horror as an entire display of what looked like awards—glass rectangles and crystal sculptures and sleek modern trophies—began to topple.
One fell. Then another. Then they all went down like dominoes made of my professional reputation.
The crash was spectacular. Earth-shattering. The kind of noise that probably echoed through the entire office and made everyone stop what they were doing to wonder what exploded.
Glass didn’t actually shatter—thankfully—but the cacophony of expensive awards clattering against wood and each other was somehow worse. More personal. Like I’d personally insulted every achievement they represented.
“Oh my god.” My voice came out as a squeak. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
I dropped to my knees, trying to gather the fallen awards, my hands shaking. There had to be at least fifteen of them—“BestHoliday Campaign,” “Top Digital Innovation,” “Webby Award Winner.” Each one was probably super expensive.
“I didn’t mean to—I was just looking for—my bag caught and?—”
“Stop.”
